Found Money - James Grippando [42]
Ryan parked behind the Range Rover in the driveway. Norm came out to greet him. He wore baggy Nike shorts and a sweaty T-shirt, much like his three sons. They were having a game of two-on-two basketball. Norm had been a decent athlete at one time, but he’d put on a few pounds since Ryan had last seen him. Lost a little more hair, too.
They exchanged their usual greeting—a big bear hug from Norm, never mind the sweat.
Ryan stepped back, making a face. “What was that BS you used to give me? Southerners don’t sweat. They glisten.”
“It’s absolutely true,” said Norm, giving him another wet hug. “Just some of us glisten our ass off.”
Norm toweled off as he led his friend around back to the patio, where they could sit and talk in private. The housekeeper brought them a pitcher of iced tea that had been sweetened in the extreme, another of Norm’s connections to his southern roots. Norm poured as they talked about the funeral he was sorry to have missed. Then the conversation turned serious.
“So,” Norm said between gulps of tea. “What’s the terrible crisis that brings you all the way to Denver to talk to a big-shot criminal defense lawyer?”
“This is all attorney-client, right?”
“Absolutely. Completely privileged and confidential. The fact that we’re friends and this is a freebie doesn’t change that.”
“I can pay you for your time, Norm. I wasn’t really looking for charity.”
“Nonsense. Trust me when I say you can’t afford me. And please don’t take that as an insult. Hell, if I needed a lawyer, I couldn’t afford me.”
“That’s kind of why I’m here, Norm. I could afford you. Seems my dad left me some money.”
His interest piqued. “How much?”
“More than you’d think.”
“I see. Seems like you’d want a probate specialist. Who are you using?”
“I was planning on using the same lawyer who drafted Dad’s will. Josh Colburn. Kind of local legal beagle.”
“You mean legal eagle.”
“No. I mean beagle. Not too smart, loyal as a puppy dog. Basically he does everybody in Piedmont Springs. But it’s starting to look like this is way over his head.”
“In what way?”
“I have some real questions about the source of the funds.”
“What kind of questions?”
Ryan hesitated. Suddenly the fact that he knew Norm and Norm had known his father was a hindrance. It had nothing to do with trust. An acute sense of shame kept him from uttering the word “extortion.” He skipped ahead, glossing over it. “My dad had a safe deposit box in Panama.”
“The country of Panama?”
“Sí,” said Ryan.
“That doesn’t mean anything by itself.”
“Norm, cut the politically correct bullshit. We’re not talking about a high-rolling international businessman. We’re talking about a sixty-two-year-old electrician from Piedmont Springs.”
“I see your point.”
“He rented the box almost twenty years ago. Went down on a Tuesday, came back the following day. As far as I can tell from his passport, he never went back.”
“You know what’s in it?”
“Supposedly there are some papers inside that will explain the source of the money.”
Norm shook his head, confused. “You gotta give me a little more information here. When you say money, you talking stocks, bonds, gold doubloons—what is it?”
“Cash. Seven figures.”
His eyes widened. “Congratulations, old buddy. You can afford me.”
“What do you know about Panamanian banks?”
“It all depends. Back in the days of dictatorship, things were different than they are now. Very strict bank secrecy. Frankly, a lot of drug money was laundered through Panamanian banks. Some would say it’s still prevalent to this day, just that it’s no longer sponsored by the government.”
“This is so crazy.”
Norm leaned closer. “I don’t mean to alarm you, amigo. Even though I do mostly criminal work, I’ve done enough probate to